Deus Ex Machina
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: He couldn't really blame Dean's angel for not wanting to deal with the guy who had demonic blood in his veins and was consorting with a demon, but Sam would do anything to find his brother. Anything.


_From _Hunting Trips 6 _(2012), from Neon Rainbow Press_

**Deus Ex Machina**  
K Hanna Korossy

"That handsome partner of yours not here today?"

Dean smiled distractedly at the waitress, whose red hair was liberally streaked with gray. "Naw, he drew the short straw and had to go talk to some witnesses."

She smiled back, shy and bold at the same time, a combination he was used to seeing from women when it came to Sam, if not himself. The waitress topped off his cup of coffee. "Well, you tell him he's got a piece of pie waiting for him when he has time to come by."

Dean perked up at that, abandoning the notes in front of him for a more sincere look of interest. "You got any pie waiting for me?" he teased.

"Peach, blueberry, olalliebery, or cherry?"

Jackpot. "Cherry, please. With ice cream?"

She seemed to look at him with new appreciation. "Be right up, sugar."

Pleased, Dean returned to his notes. They weren't as accommodating, however.

Four unrelated people of different ages, genders, and backgrounds had disappeared in Forks Mill. Each time they'd been seen last around town, at different locations. What they all had in common, however, besides being the only unsolved disappearances in the small town in years, was that they'd shown up some time later as gnawed, splintered bones at the edge of the woods bordering the town. All except the last victim, but Dean just figured nobody had stumbled over those remains yet.

There were a lot of things that killed and ate people, many of them natural. But people disappearing in town and then being eaten in the woods, that probably meant something from their side of the suspect list: a shapechanger, or a witch, or something else that could walk among humans to lure its prey to a grisly death. Unless they were talking another case like the Benders here, Dean gave an involuntary shiver, but that didn't seem to fit. There were teeth marks on the bones, and they definitely weren't human.

The waitress returned with a generous piece of pie on a plate and an already melting scoop of vanilla ice cream on top. Dean grinned at it and then, belatedly, at her. "Thank you…Sheila," he read off her uniform. "That looks awesome."

"Just wait 'til you taste it." Her smile faded as her eyes strayed to the notes—and pictures—Dean had spread across the table.

Crap, he knew better than that. Dean quickly shuffled them out of sight. "These people who disappeared," he said apologetically, "did you know any of them?"

Any good humor she had left fled at the question. "Yeah. Ronnie Blackstone. We dated a little back in high school. Why?"

"You talk to him lately?" Dean asked, his full attention on her now, looking for tells, the truth, any sign she knew more than she was letting on. "Anything strange happen to him before he disappeared, was he acting weird, somebody bothering him?"

"Haven't said more than hi in a long time." A sudden sadness passed over her face. "Guess I never will now, huh?" The bell over the door tinkled and she looked up, but it was just a customer leaving. "I'm sorry I can't help more."

His smile felt fake even though she wouldn't be able to tell the difference. "Hey, no, that's good, that's…never know what'll help."

She gave him a halfhearted smile back and retreated behind the counter.

Dean kinda doubted Sam would have much luck with her at this point, either. If Sam even noticed any female besides his demonic bitch these days.

He shook his head as he sifted through the papers in front of him, trying not to remember the scene that was burned into his brain: the guy tied to the chair, Sam pulling a demon out of him through sheer force of mind, and Ruby smirking beside him. Sam had promised he was done with that now, and Dean wanted to believe him, he did. But it was hard not to wonder what that kind of power did to a person, how much Sam had already changed. Whether the Hell Dean couldn't remember had affected him less than the Hell Sam had gone through here on Earth and remembered every minute of.

Dean sighed, rubbing at the building headache behind his forehead, and pulled the pie over on top of the papers.

It was good, no doubt. It would have been a lot better, however, without the taste of ashes that seemed to taint his every meal since he got back. His body seemed to know where Dean had been for four months, even if his brain had stuck fingers in its ears and was busy going _la, la, la, la!_

Or maybe that was just his worry for Sammy.

Sheila hadn't turned up again by the time Dean scraped his plate clean and gulped the last of the coffee. Honestly, he couldn't blame her. He collected all the notes and pictures, tossed down enough money to cover both the food and a healthy tip, and headed for the door. Maybe Sam had found something. There had to be some connection between the four, something they were missing. Maybe somebody they'd all crossed paths with…

Like the guy waiting just outside the diner door. Even in the gloom, Dean recognized him in that split second as the customer who'd been in the booth behind his. And then he only had eyes for the gun in the guy's hand. It was a strange-looking one, a make he didn't recognize.

It made a strange "wumph" sound when it was fired. "Sorry," the guy murmured at the same time.

Which was the last thing Dean heard.

00000

They shouldn't have split up.

Sometimes Sam thought that should've been John Winchester's first rule of hunting: never split up. Except that would have made the man even more a hypocrite than he already was, considering he'd played hide-and-seek with his sons the whole last year of his life. And look how well that had turned out.

Sam chewed his nail nervously as he left the diner none the wiser than he'd come—yes, Dean had been there and left the night before; no, they hadn't seen where he'd gone after—and debated where to go next. They shouldn't have split up, especially not on a hunt where people were randomly disappearing off the streets. But with Dean still having trouble meeting his eyes, and shame and anger a constant roiling battle in Sam's gut whenever his brother did look at him, Sam had embraced the offer of separate interviews with almost pathetic relief. He didn't even check to see Dean's reaction, not sure he was ready for that revelation.

And then Dean had left the diner on his way back to the room to meet Sam, and vanished.

Sam swallowed down the nausea from the déjà vu. Or maybe it was the lingering effects of no longer drinking the demon blood. Ruby insisted it wasn't addictive, but the weakness and sick feeling that continued weeks after Dean had returned and Sam had stopped, still plagued him. He tried not to think about that too closely, either.

Fine, so, wasn't like there wasn't plenty for him _to _focus on. Like a missing brother. Who, presumably, hadn't rolled out of town on his own.

Sam frowned at that thought and faltered mid-step. Wait, Dean wouldn't…would he?

The car was gone, after all. His duffel and the weapons bag was still back in their room, but those were their disposable weapons, not Dean's favorite shotgun nor his beloved Colt 1911. He had everything he wanted with him, especially since he'd lost all respect and trust in Sam.

But no, that wasn't really fair. Dean had tried to understand. After, you know, the punching and the name-calling. There'd been real sorrow in Dean's eyes, for _Sam_, after they'd had to kill Jack the rugaru. Dean had even hovered sympathetically when Sam had upchucked in front of the motel from the beating he'd gotten from Jack. And there'd definitely been some connection between them when Sam had dumped four months of receipts in front of him later that night, fighting tears as he talked about the endless days without his brother. Dean didn't hate him, Sam was pretty sure, even still cared about him. But wanting to stay with him? Dean's instincts had always been to hole up to lick his wounds. And he'd been—understandably—off since his return from Hell.

Sam walked to the edge of the parking lot, looking impotently down the road both ways. No, something felt wrong about this. Maybe Dean had issues with him, but he'd never once taken off on Sam. Plus there was Dean's unflagging loyalty to the idea of family. And everything Sam knew about his brother's feelings about abandonment. No, Sam had been the one to change over the summer, not Dean, not even after Hell. Which meant Dean hadn't gone anywhere willingly.

So, where was he?

Sam swallowed, dropping his chin as he recalled the pictures of the remains: bones stripped bare and chewed on, clumps of hair, a few streaks of old, rusty blood. His stomach gave another lurch as he thought of Dean going down under the hellhound's teeth, torn apart in front of Sam's eyes. No way was he letting his brother fall prey to something like that again. He'd die first himself.

If he just knew where to look, had someone to ask…

Oh.

Sam cleared his throat and closed his eyes. "Uh, Castiel? I don't…I don't know if this is the right way to do this, but…Dean's gone. I think something got him. And I'm guessing you didn't go through all that trouble to pull him out of Hell just to let him die in some little town in the middle of nowhere, so…I need help. Please?"

He opened one eye, scanning the parking lot doubtfully. It was mid-morning, and the lot was empty of people, cars, and, unless he was missing something, angels.

Sam took a deep breath and bowed his head again. "Look, I know I'm not your favorite person, all right? But I'm not asking this for me. Dean deserves better, you know? And I'll do anything, swear to God, anything you want to save him. All right? Just…just give me some kind of answer."

Silence. A breeze blew through the treetops, rustling the dead leaves of fall, and there was a shower of gold and red from above onto Sam. But no divine being showed up to take credit.

Sam's phone dinged.

Puzzled, he opened his eyes and dug it out of his pocket. Not a call or a text; he wasn't sure what this alert meant. Turning it on, however, revealed a map, a pushpin indicating a spot in the middle.

A GPS signal. On the phone Sam had tried to trace before without success. Dean's phone.

Sam swallowed thickly, a little dizzy at the display of what was hard to interpret as anything but answered prayer. "Thank you," he whispered.

He'd been a little bit envious of Dean's angel at first, shock and awe and all, and even now he was grieved at the thought of even God's minions avoiding him. But if that map led him to his brother, Sam didn't care what anything or anyone thought of him.

Well, except for maybe one person.

He only hoped, as he set off to find a car, that he'd have a chance to redeem himself with the only one whose respect still mattered to him.

00000

Crap, Dean groaned, motel beds just kept getting harder.

His arms and legs flexed, but it was only when he turned his head that he realized it wasn't a paper-thin pillow he was resting on. It was solid rock.

"Okay, that's…not good," he muttered, pushing up on his elbows.

The bad news quickly became worse. He was in what seemed to be a cavern, rock-hewn walls all around…and bars blocking him into one end. Two honest-to-God torches burned on either side of the smallish room, but that was the only light in the place, casting everything in murky gloom, including whatever lay beyond Dean's prison. As if he needed any more gloom.

"Awesome," he groaned, rolling up to a crouch and testing the bars. Solid, of course, metal and wedged deeply into the rock at both ends. Whoever had put him there didn't want him to leave early.

There was good news. The biggest one was that he felt relatively okay, considering the fact he'd spent some time unconscious on the rock floor of a cage. There'd been the guy with the weird gun, and the little puncture wound Dean could feel on his neck: tranq gun, he was guessing. But that still beat getting bashed over the head. Now if he could just figure out what his host wanted his company for so badly.

The other promising note was that the cage had a door. No visible lock, no hinges—it slid to the side on tracks—and what looked like a release lever way out of Dean's reach on the cavern wall, but still. Doors meant openings, which meant freedom.

Rolling his neck and shaking out his body, Dean inspected every bar individually, making sure there were no weak spots, then the rock wall all around. His phone was gone, of course, and his pockets had been emptied, even the knife sheath on his calf, so he wasn't digging himself out any time soon even if that had seemed possible, which it didn't. Which left the release lever on the wall. It was about three feet beyond Dean's fingertips when he stretched as far as he could through the bars, but maybe with his belt…

From the dark recesses of the cavern opposite the cage came a shuffle of movement and a soft snarl.

Dean froze, a shiver running down his spine. Okay, he really was screwed.

For the first time since he'd woken up in his prison, he wished Sam were there.

00000

Sam pulled up behind the Impala parked innocently in front of the dilapidated log cabin, his jaw tightening at the sight. It wasn't even _hidden. _Either Dean had a lot of explaining to do…or whatever had taken him was about to be very sorry.

Sam stepped out of the Mercury he'd borrowed from the used car lot next to the diner, easing the door shut behind him. No point giving his prey notice he was there. Not that Sam was about to be subtle. He crept once around the house, peeking in windows and listening for any noises. Then, satisfied there was no trap or better way in, he marched up the front steps of the sagging porch and knocked on the door.

Several seconds passed, just enough to make him doubt he'd get an answer. Then footsteps approached the door. Sam tensed as it swung open.

To reveal a colorless middle-aged guy with receding hair and a paunch. Sam blinked. _This _was the man who'd taken Dean down? He didn't look like he could overpower a teddy bear.

"Yeah?" the guy said suspiciously.

"Uh, hi." Sam gave him a plastic smile. "Hey, I collect classic cars, and I was driving by and couldn't help noticing the Impala you've got out here. I was just wondering if you were interested in selling?" He tried to look hopeful instead of homicidal.

"Oh." The guy looked nonplussed for a moment. "Uh, yeah, I guess. Just bought it myself—it's nice, huh? How much you offering for it?"

Sam's mouth stretched nastily, and then his fist was flying. The guy went down like a sack of bricks. "Actually, I was thinking of just taking it back." He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and yanked the unconscious man's arms up above his head so Sam could cuff them around one of the beams supporting the porch. It looked incredibly uncomfortable, he thought with satisfaction, then stepped over the prone body and went looking for his brother.

The cabin was quiet, and not very big. Sam swept the place in a minute, gun clenched tight in both hands. Okay, that wasn't too surprising: clearly this guy wasn't the one eating the missing victims, not unless he was a lot more than he seemed. Sam hadn't gotten that sense from him, though, so he was probably just the human behind the monster, the guy who brought in dinner from town. Which meant searching for clues as to where the real feeding grounds were.

But there was precious little to go on. No desk to search, a pile of mail that didn't yield any information, a few meaningless scraps of paper in the kitchen. The few old pictures on the mantel of the guy with a kid yielded no clues. There weren't even books on the two shelves. Maybe the guy was no Einstein, but still, Sam had expected—

Was that…growling?

Sam stood motionless, not even breathing, just listening.

Definitely something not human. And…somewhere under his feet.

Sliding the gun quickly into the back of his jeans, Sam started inspecting the floors, yanking dirty area rugs aside and peering under furniture.

There. Under the throw behind the bed, a square trapdoor. Pulse racing with adrenaline, Sam found the ring set into the wood and pulled up.

The growling got louder, raising the hair on the back of Sam's neck. He was guessing he'd found the maneater's lair.

_ "Hey, listen, Fido, it's not dinnertime yet, okay? How 'bout you and me…I don't know, play some ball first, huh?" _Dean's voice drifted up out of the cellar, and Sam drew in a breath, feeling suddenly lightheaded.

"Dean!"

There was a beat, then, _"Sam?"_ He sounded surprised.

"Yeah, hold on." There was a ladder carved out of…rock?…right up against one edge of the trapdoor's opening, leading down. Sam shuffled around and lowered a foot onto the first rung.

_"Yeah, about that. Fido here might have some other ideas." _As Sam climbed down another step, Dean's voice sharpened; maybe he'd caught sight of him. _"Sam, be careful, it's loose down here." _

He'd already retrieved his gun, descending one-handed as he tried to see through the dimly-lit cellar. "Where is it?"

_ "Dunno—I can't see it. But I've been hearin' it to your right." _

Sam swung around, but he still couldn't see anything, even as there was another snarl from the shadows. "You know what it is?"

_"Dude, I don't even know how I got here. Last thing I know, Joe Schmo ambushes me outside the diner and hits me with a tranq dart."_

Well, that answered a few things. Halfway down now, Sam risked a glance over his shoulder and saw Dean standing tensely on the other side of a row of bars. His brother looked impatient but intact, hands balling loosely at his side as he rocked on the balls of his feet.

There was a snort behind Sam, and Dean's eyes went wide. "Sam!"

Not impatience. Worry.

He was already turning, cursing himself for letting his thoughts get distracted for even a second, but he'd had to check on Dean. He hadn't just gotten his brother back to lose him again. That was worth—

The creature lunging at him from less than a foot away.

Sam had a brief impression of fangs and fur and a tall, muscular form on two legs. Then it was on him.

The sound of gunshots in the small cavern was sharp. So were the spears of pain jabbing into his thigh. Everything else was blurred: the dark rock walls, the heavy furry mass on top of him, Dean's shouts in the background.

Then there was silence. The creature had stopped moving, crushing him under its dead weight. Sam's head swam from the lack of oxygen.

_ "Sam! Sammy! Answer me!"_

Dean. Sam pushed clumsily at the mass above him, grunting as he tried to crawl out from beneath it. Something finally shifted, and the suffocating wall of fur rolled off him and hit the ground to lie motionless.

"Sam, you with me?"

_Yeah, _he meant to answer, but it came out as a rusty cough. Sam tilted forward onto his stomach, pushing up on arms that wobbled like jelly under him.

"Sam—crap, it got your leg good. Can you get up?"

Get up. Good idea. Sam tried again, making it to his elbows before trying to gain his knees. But his legs weren't working right, dragging clumsily behind him even as his thigh throbbed with nauseating pain. "Can'—" He coughed again. "Somethin's…legs asleep…"

There was a beat, then Dean's voice again, clearly strained. "Sam, I think it dosed you with something when it bit you—you gotta let me outta here. Just listen to me, okay? There's a lever on the wall in front of you—just get there and pull it, and I got the rest. Okay? You hear me?"

"Hear you," Sam mumbled. The doing was the problem. He raised his head with difficulty, taking in the lever with swimming eyes. It wasn't that far or that high, but it felt like the top of Mount Everett. Already the subtle creep of numbness was approaching his hips; another minute and he might not have any mobility left at all. Sam swore quietly and started army crawling, pulling himself along with his arms alone.

"That's it—that's good. Just a couple more feet. You can do it," Dean encouraged him from the sidelines.

"Shuddup," Sam puffed out, lungs heaving. Was the air getting heavier? Torches burned oxygen and they were in a small space. How'd Dean get in there, anyway? The dude had probably trained his pet to hit the lever when it wanted dinner. Like a lab rat; Sam snickered at the thought.

"Sam?"

His murky brain snapped back to the job at hand. "Tryin'," Sam ground out, then gasped when his forehead struck rock. Hello, wall. Now he just had to scale it. Piece of cake.

He couldn't feel the sick twist of his stomach anymore. Pretty soon the paralysis would reach his lungs.

Sam rested his temple against the rock for just a second, then heaved upward. And fell short of the lever by a few inches, leaving him sprawled on the rock floor.

"Try again, Sam." Dean's voice, implacable and unrelenting. "One more try—you can do this, Sammy."

Ruby had tried to call him Sammy. Sam hadn't let her. That was Dean's right alone. God, he'd missed his brother.

"Sam, listen to me. You're almost there—just, use those ginormous arms and hit the lever, okay? You got this."

Dean had thought that about Sam before he'd died, too, and that hadn't gone well. Sam had never been as strong as his brother thought he was. He tilted his head back, gauging the distance to the lever, then sucked in a breath.

Or tried to, as his lungs froze.

"Sammy!"

Sam threw his arm up, fingers stretching to their limits. Hooking over the metal lever and dragging it toward the floor with him as his strength gave out.

There was a grinding sound from Dean's direction.

Sam couldn't look. Black was creeping into the edges of his vision as his lungs tried and failed to expand. Suffocation was an awful way to die, but he couldn't seem to mind it. He hadn't really been living anyway since midnight had struck in New Harmony and Dean had died and gone to Hell.

"Sam. Hey, Sammy." He thought he felt hands on his cheeks, under his head. At least he wasn't dying alone.

Then that was gone, too.

00000

"Stupid, stupid, stupid."

Dean couldn't have said if the chant was for himself for getting caught in the first place, or Sam for getting bitten. But the word repeated over and over in Dean's head as he clung to the bars and watched Sam struggle to stay conscious long enough to free him.

It had to be some kind of nerve toxin. The thing—whatever it was—had only gotten in one bite before Sam had killed it, and there wasn't enough blood for it to be an arterial injury, so Sam wasn't succumbing to shock. The way he was dragging his body and his muttered words made Dean think it was some kind of paralytic spreading through him. Which meant they didn't have much time, either to get Dean free or for him to save Sam from asphyxiating.

He bit his lip until it bled as he watched Sam's tortured crawl to the wall and unsuccessful attempt to hit the lever. It was only a few feet up, but for someone who couldn't use his legs, it was far enough.

"Come on, kiddo," Dean whispered to himself, trying not to yell too much at Sam. The guy looked like he was fighting a losing battle to stay focused as it was. "You can do this."

He'd always believed Sam could do anything. Even when it was impossible, like keeping his head together when he'd just witnessed the only family he had left torn apart in front of him. He'd seen his girl burn, saw Dad go down, knew his mom had died over his bed. Dean had never even considered that his brother wouldn't survive witnessing his death, too, that he'd finally reached his breaking point. Not until he'd come back to find Sam broken.

Maybe it was himself he'd really been mad at when he'd seen what Sam had sunk to, not the kid. How could he be mad at Sam going blind with grief for him?

On the other side of the bars, Sam made a choking sound. Dean knew that sound too well: Sam couldn't breathe.

"Sammy!" he barked. Now or never, now or—

Sam didn't even look up, just swung one long arm up. And damned if that ridiculously long limb didn't snag the lever. He pulled it down with what looked more like the tug of gravity than any real exertion on Sam's part.

Didn't matter how or why, though, when the gears of the cage wall started grinding, the door cranking open.

Dean pressed against the slowly widening opening, body vibrating with the need to get out as he saw Sam slump to the floor. His chest wasn't rising or falling anymore.

Then Dean was free.

Sam's eyes were just fluttering shut when Dean reached him, cradled his head, pressed a hand against a chest that was ominously still. "Sam. Hey, Sammy, I got you. Just hold on, okay? Hold on." He let go reluctantly, patting Sam down quickly. His phone was in his right pocket where it usually was, and Dean yanked it out and turned it on.

No service.

Dean cursed, glancing up and around the cavern. There'd probably be reception through the trapdoor he could now see Sam had descended through, but that meant precious minutes of climbing up and calling, and Sam wasn't breathing. How was he…?

"You are safe."

The words spun Dean around. He stared dumbly at the trench-coated figure standing a few feet away. "Castiel?"

"Samuel prayed for help to find you. His prayer was answered."

That was…something he needed to think about later. Right now, Dean tilted Sam's head back, made sure his airway was clear. "He's not breathing."

Castiel didn't respond.

Dean grimaced, bending down to give Sam two inhalations. Then he glanced up at the angel again. "Don't just stand there—help him."

The smallest frown gathered on Castiel's brow. "I cannot. I have not been ordered—"

"Screw your orders," Dean burst out. He was doing compressions now, attention torn between Sam's lax face and blue lips, and the angel who was standing there watching him die. "Sam was the one who always believed in you guys, not me. You think someone's worth saving? Save _him_."

Something almost like puzzlement passed over the angel's calm features. "The way you and your brother bargain for each other—"

Another two exhales. Sam tasted like morning breath and sulfur, but he could go off and marry Ruby for all Dean cared, as long as he was alive to do it. "Damn it, Cas, you fix him or you forget about whatever job God wants me to do, you hear me?"

"Be careful what you damn, Dean Winchester," came gravely from behind him.

Dean's head shot up, ready to really give the angel a piece of his mind, threats or no. But the cavern behind him was empty.

His face crumpled, his hands twisting in Sam's shirt. What was he supposed to do now? What the he—?

The wail of a siren came through the open trapdoor, followed by the bang of doors and tromp of boots. _"What…? Mark, check this guy out."_ Then more loudly, _"Hey, someone in here?" _a voice called from above. _"Paramedics—we're unarmed."_

Dean dragged in a wet breath. "Down here," he yelled back. "Hurry up—he's not breathing." To Sam, he murmured, "You're gonna be okay." Then he started CPR again, even as he heard someone climbing down to join him.

He'd thank Castiel later.

00000

"Sam? Wake up."

Sam sighed out a breath, leg jerking a little as something tickled the sole. "Lem'lone."

There was a soft laugh: Dean. "That's Sam-speak for 'leave me alone.'"

The first voice returned. "Sam, I'm a doctor. I need you to open your eyes for me."

Frowning, Sam obeyed. What the—?

Hospital white. Strange guy in white. Dean in…gray and black, grinning behind the doc's back while he sipped a cup of coffee.

Sam's stomach grumbled.

The doctor smiled. "That's a good sign. Could you move your arms and legs for me?"

He did everything he was asked, including obediently parroting the name Dean mouthed from behind the doc, the month and year, and the state, also thankfully provided by Dean, because Sam had no clue. He was pretty sure he remembered something furry with teeth, and…a cage? And then nothing.

"Looks good. Whatever that spider got you with, it seems to be out of your system now. You're a lucky young man, surviving a poisonous spider bite on top of the bear attack. Or unlucky, I suppose."

Sam laughed weakly with him, eyes darting to Dean, who just shrugged. It wasn't the craziest story they'd come up with.

"I'd like you to stay until this afternoon, but if there are no complications, your brother can take you home."

"Uh…thank you?" Sam stammered.

The doctor gave him a smile and a pat, and left.

Dean watched him go, then looked back at Sam. His smile faded as he met Sam's stare. "You, uh, remember what happened?"

"Guy with a pet…whatever in the basement, and it was feeding time?"

"Pretty much. The experts are going with 'bear.'" Dean hitched himself onto the edge of Sam's bed. "How you feeling?"

Good question. The bite marks on his leg had made themselves known when he'd moved his limbs for the doctor, and his chest ached from what Sam soberly suspected was CPR. But in all, he felt pretty good, considering he'd nearly bought the farm. Again. "I'm fine." At Dean's disbelieving look, Sam made a face, snagged his coffee, and took a gulp before Dean could grab it back. "Seriously, dude, I'm fine. It was just a bite."

"That stopped your heart," Dean added tightly.

He'd learned a long time ago to differentiate between Dean's fear and anger, even if it came out almost the same. And Sam knew too well what it was like to watch, trapped and helpless, as your brother was attacked by something that wanted to rip him apart. It meant more to him than he could say that Dean had felt the same way, even after everything. "I'm okay, Dean," he said more gently. "You were in time, all right?"

"Castiel was," Dean blurted.

Sam's eyebrows rose. "Castiel? Like—"

"The feathered son of a bitch who wouldn't fix you? Yeah, but he got you help. I couldn't…" Dean shook his head, eyes shifting away.

"Castiel? Wow," Sam breathed. He'd never even thought to question the existence of Dean's angel, not with the way Dean looked when he talked about him, not to mention the proof Sam himself had gotten the other day. He hadn't ever seen the angel himself. But he couldn't really blame God's emissary for not wanting to deal with the guy who had demonic blood in his veins and was consorting with a demon. The thought just kinda…hurt.

Dean's face softened. "Dude, it's not like he hates you or anything. Just…"

"Yeah," Sam said before it got awkward. He got it; he did. He had failed to save Dean from Hell so the angels had stepped in. He was grateful for that, really. But…

"The thing in the cellar?" Dean oh-so-subtly changed the subject. "Looks like it was the dude's son. Something must've gotten to him, changed him, and Daddy—"

"—couldn't stop looking after his kid," Sam said with a grimace.

"Yeah, got him carry-out and everything. Cops found a stash of the victims' stuff in the house. They're chalkin' it up to some obsessive pet owner." Dean hesitated. "The guy hung himself in jail last night."

Sam winced.

Dean shook his head once. "That's just messed up, you know?"

Sam forced a smile. "You mean, you wouldn't, say, bring me fresh hearts if I got turned by a werewolf?"

Dean eyed him, more seriously than Sam had intended. "Yeah," he finally said, quiet and almost sad. "I would."

Sam swallowed, looked away, picked at his blanket. "Dean…"

Dean's coffee appeared in his eyeline, nudged his hand. "So, I think I found us a case." He paused dramatically. "Dracula."

Sam clasped the coffee cup and tilted his head up. "Dracula?"

"Dracula." Dean appeared smug. Tickled. And completely sympathetic.

He wasn't looking at Sam like he was a monster. Or like it would change anything if he was.

And even if it was just for Dean's sake, an angel had found Sam worth saving. It wasn't exactly absolution, but it still made it easier to go on.

Sam smiled back. "Yeah. Sounds good."

**The End**


End file.
